


Bleed Black

by Gaia_VoidMother



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-14
Updated: 2015-11-01
Packaged: 2018-04-26 08:43:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4998223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gaia_VoidMother/pseuds/Gaia_VoidMother
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spike has a Really Good Day. Consequences follow. This does NOT start out a happy fic nor is there much, if any, fluff as there are some dark times coming. You have been warned. However, due to my obsession with all things Spuffy, you WILL get what you are after if you ship that pairing, just a fair bit darker than most. Story starts somewhere between School Hard and Angelus getting his happy on. Dru is still sick, Spike never got crippled. Joyce has known about Buffy's Calling since the attempted resurrection of the Master, and Darla hasn't been killed as of yet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Only Death Is Certain

**Author's Note:**

> Story Notes: Disclaimer: All characters and copyrights are owned by Joss and his crew, I'm only playing in their garden. 
> 
>  
> 
> I now have a beta, the lovely SleepingTigress over at Elysian Fields, for plot points and idea bouncing. If you notice anything glaringly obvious that can't be explained by applying British English to it then by all means let me know. Reviews are a huge help. This is my first foray into fanfics and I would love to know what-all you guys think of it.

He loved the sound of her heart beating. Every time he took a long pull, the rhythm stuttered, before recovering for a few beats as he swallowed down the heady cocktail of slayer blood and fear. Unlife was fuckin’ NEAT. So there he was, The Big Bad, bein’... well. Big and Bad. Third notch an’ all. Dru was gonna cream her loony panties when he told her the good news. Which sounded right brilliant for dessert, now that he thought of it.

 

_-Flicker. FLASH-_

A sword fight. A stone statue. A diminutive blonde girl, hardly more than a child, leaps and whirls around a hulking dark-haired figure. Her eyes are focussed, watching for an opening,  _any_  opening, yet deep within them lies a rending pain. The man * _that's_ _not a man, that’s the soddin’ Great Poofter Himself!_ * laughs viciously, taunting the girl * _Don’t look so soul-havin’ now, do ya Peaches? And how’d you shed that soulful stick up your arse?_ * as he kicks her away from her sword. She slumps against the wall, defeat in every line. He raises his own blade above his head, and brings it down with a roar of triumph. - _FLASH-_  The dark-haired vampire stands trustingly, eyes closed as the Slayer tearfully transfixes him with her blade. He cries out in pained betrayal as his body is sucked into a vortex that is seemingly anchored in the mouth of the stone statue * _An’ why the FUCK would Foreheadus Maximus just fucking STAND there for his send-off? What’d I miss? What the buggering fuck is this anyway? And what is that delectable SMELL?_ *

 

Spike lifted his head from her throat, lips stained crimson, teeth rimed in red. The blond from his vision is sprawled beneath him, eyes glazed in pain and exhaustion. He took a few deep breaths, trying to pinpoint the distracting smell that wound beneath the coppery scent of blood and power that was unique to a Slayer. He smirked nastily when he realised just what it was. * _Bint’s bloody turned on. I don’t believe it. Knew she liked the dust-up, din’t think she’d enjoy the after-party. I’n’t this somethin’ for the Wanker Diaries..._ * He looked down at his Third Notch. She’d given him quite a fight, they’d near enough demolished the warehouse she’d tracked him to tonight and he’d led her on a merry chase through half the cemeteries of Sunnyhell beforehand.

 

There was a fizzing sensation in his veins, and a faint roaring in his skull. Slayer blood was such a damned rush! And this one was so different to that Chinese girl he’d had all those years ago. She had tasted of spice and resignation. She’d been happy to go, at the last. But this one, by God she was magnificent! Tasted like warm sunshine, hope and fear and fire, underscored by untried passion and regret and that sweet musky arousal adding piquancy to the whole sodding bouquet. Damned if he didn’t sound like a right tosser, that bloody poncy little shite William popping up with his poetic nancy-boy poetry. He had to admit though, this was quite possibly the best taste he’d ever had in his mouth. This Slayer wasn’t ready to die yet and it showed. The adrenaline still lacing her blood was like that time he’d taken an amphetamine junkie. It raced through his skull and straight to his cock. He could drive sodding nails with this erection. Could run for fucking DAYS. He wanted to throw his head back and howl his triumph to the moon, rub it in the great Poofter’s face because of course HIS scent had been all over this girl when she’d started chasing him tonight. He’d watched in disgusted disbelief as the Wanker Himself had mooned over the chit every chance he got, traipsing after her and lurking under her window in a hilarious shadow of his former un-souled self, only without the sinister taunting and dead puppies.

 

It appeared she was equally infatuated with He of the Forehead, encouraging him with her come-hither eyes and unschooled posturing. The attempts to appear mature and sophisticated undermined by the awkward glances she threw him from under her lashes, gauging his reactions like the little girl she ultimately was. Give her a few years, and a few lovers (though not the sodding Bogtrotter, he was a useless lump unless you went in for torture) and she might have had the confidence to pull her act off. She had a body that’d tempt a saint, just enough curves and just enough flesh to grow into a sultry little sex-kitten. Pity she’d never get the chance.

 

Snapping out of his reverie, Spike bent down to her throat, sliding his fangs right back into the sluggishly bleeding artery he’d previously tapped. His swallows were slow and luxurious now, his throat working as he sipped at her life rather than gulping it. This he swore, he’d have the patience to savour. It was completely worth forgoing the instant gratification of draining the chit like a pulped orange.

 

_-Flicker-FLASH-_

 

A slightly older version of the slayer beneath his fangs leapt into action against a group of blue hag-demons, taking and dealing hits in a whirling dance of destruction. * _huh, wonder what the Bitches of Jhe are doin’ in sodding Sunnyhell? Fuck she looks good, where’d she learn to do THAT? And what the fuck is goin’ on dammit?! ‘m not Dru, why’m I getting the visions? S’not like that Woodstock hippy, slayer was dead sober when we were throwin’ down*_

He frowned into her neck as he continued the slow drain, unwilling to stop the effervescent liquid from sparkling on his palate while he pondered the odd visions. As far as he could remember this hadn’t happened with the Chinese bint he’d squeezed dry. He never did sample the New York slayer, an odd sense of respect had stayed his fangs from the woman who had so nearly done for him. He turned his attention to the vital signs of the slayer beneath him, listening with pleasure to the heart, growing fainter as her blood pressure dropped lower and lower. Her breathing was growing erratic and her hands and feet were twitching, her bodies’ unconscious attempt to distance itself from the danger it was in. He closed his eyes as he smiled around her neck. He’d probably go years and years before he met her match, and he may dust before that ever happened, she’d already surpassed the last one he’d bested. He shrugged and settled further down against her, wallowing in the sensations of her blood vitalising him, and her scent surrounding him.

 

_-Flick-FLASH-_

This slayer, eyes glowing orange, speaking with a timeless echo, plunging her fist into the chest of a Frankenstein monstrosity, ripping out a glowing object as the monster’s eyes dimmed and it crashed to its knees. A white-haired figure beside her, decapitating a demon with a whirl of black leather * _No SODDING WAY! What the buggering fuck is he doin’ with MY coat? Won that fair an- oh. Oh no. No no nonono. Can’t be. Oh God no!_ _Why’m I HELPIN’ the broad? Who wrote this fucking script?! And why’m I lookin’ at her like she hung the fuckin’ moon?_ * She collapses, obviously spent, and instead of going for her throat, the Spike of the vision removes his duster and tenderly covers the small figure before picking her up and carrying her out of the room, away from the corpses.

 

The visions flicker past faster and faster, images over what is obviously years flashing rapidly across his mind, Spike- with the Slayer, patrolling Restfield. Demon-faced and snarling, brawling in broad daylight with an upset Chosen One.  Slayer, surrounded by demons, saved by Spike. Blond vampire sparring with blond Slayer, both laughing as the evenly matched pair seem to dance across the hardwood floor of a basement gym setup. Kisses in moonlight. Blood, sweat, tears, FUCKING. Ecstasy-etched faces in the throes of a grand passion. Fading. Fainter and fewer, flickering now in time with that faltering, fluttering heartbeat. As he swallowed the last mouthful, the heart and visions finally, finally halted. He felt the vitality leave her now rapidly cooling body. Her eyes, so bright and green, now clouding over with grey death, face slack and lifeless. Throat inexplicably wet with more than blood smears. His eyes burn. Drying tear tracks down her calm face. His demon, subdued in the wake of his greatest victory, quiescent in disbelief. He was crying. Silent tears dripped unnoticed to the corpse of his greatest opponent. A raw sound in his throat, half moan, half hysterical giggle.

 

* _Gone an’ done it now haven’t I? Can’t be her sodding dog if she’s fuckin’ dead can I? Dru! Comin’ home now Dru.*_ ‘Done it. ‘ve done it luv, done you proud I have, my wicked plum. Comin’ to get you Princess.’


	2. One. Good. Day

He’d stalked her, keeping out of range of both her slayer-enhanced senses and his grand-sires’ familial ties. Watching, gauging. He’d learnt patience for this one; she’d taught him caution, wariness for the unpredictable element that was her bonds to family and friends. He had thought it would be simple, and sent a minion to test her first, that night behind the Bronze. Had been impressed with her skill and flair, the zest she still had for the kill. Unable to wait he’d come after her mere days later, in the halls of her high-school, where he’d had her on the ropes and down for the count. That should have been the end of it but he’d been blindsided  _literally_  by the protective instincts of her mother. Bloody bint took a fucking  _AXE_ to his head. She had a pair of stones, Slayer’s mum did. He was almost sorry she’d be burying her baby. But for that sacred calling, the sort of dedication she’d had to her progeny should have been rewarded.

 

Tonight had been glorious. A true meeting of Light versus Dark. He’d met his match, the Batman to his Joker. He’d-had-her-she’d-had-him back and forth, give and take. The best sort of dance. The kind that comes once a century and leaves you feeling a euphoria that tops sex and blood and only happened when you trusted your partner to give their all, when you know only one’ll walk at the end and the only way to win is to have a better day than her. It was always a woman for him, the only ones worth waltzing with. Slayers, the ultimate dance-partner, the sodding Great Challenge. Every time he’d faced one he flirted with the cliff’s edge. It was like sticking a hand in sunlight, only without the immediate burn, and he’d never been sure until the last blow that he’d be the one to walk away.

 

He thought fondly of the warehouse they’d ended up in, the same one he’d made a home for him an’ Dru when they’d first arrived and had to kowtow to the Annoyin’ One. ‘Course, once he’d dusted the pretentious little shit, the Slayer soon found it and that’d been the end of that. He’d moved his black sugarplum to another warehouse, this one even more dilapidated and tumble-down. It was only a temporary thing, as soon as he found a cure for her wasting illness they were blowin’ this popsicle stand. Too damn many demons gathered about a Hellmouth to make it comfortable as a proper hunting ground, an’ his Dru din’t like to put down roots, no. She was a free spirit in the truest sense of the word, drifting like spidersilk in the wind, to and bloody fro, wherever her whimsy alighted.

 

He lit a cigarette and inhaled slowly, as he headed back to his beloved Sire's eccentric orbit. He relived the fight in his head, going over and over his favourite parts; the half-choked huff the Slayer had made when he’d winded her with a perfect boot to the solar plexus. The way her hair seemed to glow like a halo in the light of the full moon when she’d hooked a diminutive fist across his jaw, slamming him head first into a mausoleum wall. Soddin’ hell he’d seen stars for a while after that, bitch could hit like a ton of bricks. The way she hunkered in, fists up and steely-eyed when he bounced on his toes during one of their brief, unspoken truces that seemed to evolve naturally from the titanic effort both put in to ending their opponent.

 

Even after he’d snapped her wrist, throwing her against the wrought-iron fence of a cemetery, she’d still almost done for him a few times. Spike continued on his way, his eyes half mast and flickering side to side as he reminisced. He’d loved the fact that she had never begged quarter, no matter how many times he knocked her down, even when he’d finally broken her ribs with that vicious heel kick into the iron girder in the warehouse. She just whimpered and squared up again, breathing shallowly, a battered Goddess.

 

* * *

 

 The white knight in midnight was returning. Miss Edith had murmured, the pixies confirmed. The sibilant whispers questioning. Where is the White Queen? She could feel the cool fingers of darkness eclipsing the sunshine. Gold to ash. Sunshine and regret. No true night (knight?) this. Too long in the dark and what was white is stained grey.

 

A gaunt waif whirled through shafts of moonlight, tilting and swaying to unheard music, the flickering black-white of her pale limbs and dark garments juxtaposed. The girl-woman skipped through the shadows and cold silver that made her form appear disjointed, a floating hand, a glimpse of velvet skirt and the flag of her dark tresses. The glitter of eyes from the dark entrance snagged her stilted lone waltz, and she drifted to the centre of the room, sinking artfully to the floor in the largest ray of light. ‘You been dancin’ all the night again, pet?’ A smoky drawl, a hitched unnecessary breath, and a flare of cherry-red in the gloom.

 

He stalked towards her, loose-limbed and predatory. She felt a frisson of excitement on the side facing his languid approach. Her eyes half-shut she swayed towards him, drawn in by the power, the  _heat_  within him. ‘Did my bad dog eat something warm? I smell it you know.' She giggled slyly. 'Bad dog shouldn’t taste sunshine, it’ll burn him to ashes. Open his eyes.’

 

‘Pet, you’ll spoil my surprise. ‘ve gotten something for you, a real treat. We’ll have you back to your normal self in no time. See, I had myself a Real Good Day. That pint-sized Slayer won’t be botherin' us anymore, and we c'n be out of Sunnyhell before the next sunrise.’

 

She moaned, hand to her temple. ‘The stars. They’re screaming at me! Why are they crying so loudly? Where is the White Queen? Shadows. All shadows. White to grey from black. Where is your Queen, little prince?’

 

* _Dru’s been acting right odd since we left Prague_ * ‘My wicked Queen is right where I left her, dancin’ the night to day and chasin’ moonlight like one of her pixies’ He dropped a kiss to her temple and she shivered in reaction, whimpering. He looked at her, frowning a little. She was lost again, blind to the corporeal world. Her sodding Miss Edith had probably made off with her mind again, and she was too thin to wait. He vamped briefly and casually tore his wrist open, tipping it over her parted lips until she latched on and started nuzzling for more of the potent draught. He smiled as almost instantly her features started to fill out and bloom with pale health. He'd already benefitted mightily from the potency of the Slayer's gift, his face was pale and unblemished, cheekbone no longer depressed and his cracked sternum no longer sent jabs of agony through his frame. All the bruising was faded as if weeks and not hours had passed.

 

After a time, he regretfully detached Drusilla from his arm, stroking her hair as he licked his wound closed. Her eyes fluttered slowly, and her pupils sharpened as she came back to herself. A wicked grin flitted across her face and she licked her lips clean, before she suddenly raked him along his cheekbone like an angry cat. 'What's the bad, BAD dog done? He's eaten where he shouldn't hasn't he? Taken too much and burnt the gold to ashes. Tastes of sunshine and regrets he does, and where's his Mummy to find her dearest Daddy when he's gone and hidden the light?' Her face broke as she sobbed and wailed, leaping to her feet and fleeing across the wooden floorboards. 'Daddy is lostlostLOST! Oh what a wicked dog you are little William! Never should have brought you home! Broken home. Lost Daddy. Ashes where the light lives.'

 

He looked on in absolute consternation, hand slowly raised to his cheek. As her words sank in his eyes shuttered, pain driven deep and stomped into a little hole. Dru was havin' an episode. Never means the nasty things she spouts when she goes all sack of hammers like this. Fucking Angelus, couldn't have anything nice without that he shattered it and ruined the joy for everyone else. Now he'll have to talk Dru down and hope she forgave him for whatever he had apparently fucked up this time. Only, she was goin' on and on about eatin' wrong, and too much and... Oh hell. What's she seen now? She's been goin on and on about this bloody White Queen and how the sunshine would help her find her Daddy, only the Poofter was in town now, and she'd even been to see him once or twice, by the smell. He tried not to begrudge her, the Sire bond could be a powerful thing, but c'mon, it was the Sodding Forehead. And what did sunlight have to do with him anyway, last he heard just havin a soul shoved up your arse didn't mean a free pass to sunlit strolls on the bloody beach.

 


	3. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Watcher is faced with a terrible revelation on his doorstep, but all hope is not lost. Drusilla goes for a midnight stroll and Spike is nowhere to be seen.

'Sunshine! Wilt tha sleep, golden an' warm, til it's time to let tha' go back?'

 

'Back? Whu-?' * _Ok, note to self, Buffy brain and waking up are unmixy things. Need caffeine_ *

 

'Come now, little thing. Naught good it'll favour tha to rest overmuch. Tis time to rise and face thy music.'

 

* _Wait a minute, what happened last night? I was fighting... OH! That bleached 80's reject from the highschool. He sounded a bit like Giles, but WAY more with the making of the snark. What do I remember? We fought, I chased him through some cemeteries, and found him at the warehouse the Anointed one used to nest at... Didn't he bite me? He BIT me! And now there's some strange woman trying to wake me up and I know I died because he-wait, Giles said his name was William something-or-other- told me he'd kill me when we fought and if I'm dead, why do I have such a headache?*_

 

'Uh, where am I? Is this... Am I dead?'

 

A rich chuckle penetrated her skull, and her eyes fluttered open. The first thing she noticed as she cautiously sat up was a short, stout woman beside the bed. ‘Dead tha art, sweetling, but tha hast work to do and things to learn even here. Tis no rest for a Champion-in-Training, and tha hast much to accomplish with little time for’t.’

 

‘Way to vague things up. Can any of the supernatural people in my life make with the sense? Or is it a PTB requirement that cryptic clues and/or weird accents are the order of the day?’

 

‘Oh lovey, tha’d have to ask them thy own self, an’ late tha art already. Now up, up my girl, we’ve got much to do here. Clothes in the chest there, and belike tha’s ahungered. I’ll lead tha off to break thy fast if tha’ll only get dressed. I’ll wait outside for thee.’

 

* _All in the life- or death I guess- of the Hellmouth's Chosen One. Can my wiggy life get ANY weirder? And NO, that isn't an invitation!*_

 

* * *

 

 

 

* _Time flies, like a pigeon. Or a hammer. Much to do with the sun sleeping. Secrets slipping, broken dolls to return. Mustn’t tell, Miss Edith mustn’t speak out of turn or there’ll be no cake for supper. Such pretty poetry, the sunshine’s return at knightfall._ * The owner of these thoughts flitted from shadow to shadow. Amber eyes glowed from beneath a prominent brow-ridge as her form passed beneath one of the vanishingly few streetlights in the district. When she arrived at her destination, Drusilla skipped around the side of the building and dashed in the side door. * _Mustn’t tarry, mustn’t linger. All angels and princesses burn and wither under the harsh glare of Apollo_ *

 

She eyed the crumpled form in the centre of a cleared space. It looked like a hurricane had gone through the lower floor, with smashed crates and the table that had graced the floor where the body was now laying in pieces. The slender vampiress minced her way through the splinters and wreckage, pulling a thick piece of yellowing parchment from her bodice. She peered at it before replacing it and kneeling beside the fallen Slayer. ‘Oh Sunshine. Mercury drained and pinions crippled. How are you to fly when he has broken your body to the floor?’ Drusilla looked skyward, human guise melting over her demon’s face. ‘Bad dogs shouldn’t be shown the sparkling fireflies of might-have-been, they bite and madden them. I chose the best and bravest knight in all the land, but I birthed him wrong and now he’s nearly spoiled the tea-party! You know better. You know. Time to make it right. Mummy is always cleaning up after the children.’

 

The mad seer lifts the body. With all the life and vibrancy stilled, the shell seems less than the sum of its parts. She steps towards the door and darts into the night.

 

An insistent drubbing on his door brings the Council’s representative to wakefulness. Giles rises swiftly, worry on his brow as he hurries to his closet and dons a robe. His haste brings him clattering to the front door, which he wrenches open, heart in his throat. He hasn’t seen his charge in over 24 hours and he hopes against hope that it’s  _her._  The doorway is disturbingly empty and the disappointment threatens to floor him. Head dropping to look at the floor, he recoils in horror. The daughter of his heart is laid out before his threshold like an offering, hands folded over her breast. Her skin appears waxen, Californian tan competing against bloodless pallor. Perhaps the worst thing about the scene * _she’s dead. She’s DEAD! It’s too soon ohgodohgod*_  is the tiny silver dagger pinning a sheet of parchment through her palms.

 

His hands shaking, the Watcher lifts his precious burden and carries her to the dining table before laying her out again. Gently moves her hands to her sides and removes the parchment and the dagger. His brow furrows as he attempts to decipher the foreign language. For a moment, a different man’s eyes flicker to the body on the table, anger deep within the sadness. Absently polishing his spectacles, Giles moves to his bookshelves and starts rifling through the collection. Pulling a codex of ancient predictions from the stacks at his desk he flips through it until he finds what he is looking for, muttering to himself and taking notes. Sipping on a glass of scotch, his eyes spark for a moment and he wonders. There is a lot to consider, after all. He knows some of it is missing, but that’s not as important as what  _is_ there. For some time he’s suspected that the line had passed to the new slayer, called when she had died for that minute last year. Now that it seems certain that his charge is retrievable, that it is  _desirable_  that she should return, he isn’t going to question it too closely. It appears he has some of what he needs, and if what he’s read is correct then he has his own part to play. * _Saeson’s mount?_ * something niggles in the back of his mind. He reaches without appearing to look at the shelf at beside the desk and retrieves another tome. He looks over it, skimming quickly before his eyes light up in a Eureka moment. * _Looks like I’m going back to Merry Old_ *

 

As the hours drew closer to dawn, the man looked as if he had aged a decade overnight. The level on his crystal decanter crept closer to the bottom and yet still, Giles could not conceive of a way to inform her mother. * _God, no wonder we traditionally isolate these young women._ * And it was only now, in the tiny hours of the new day, that British stoicism gave way to bitter tears in the face of a heartbreak so profound it seemed inconceivable that it could leave anything whole in its wake.

 

The shrill clarion of technology interrupted the Watcher’s silent vigil. His eyes leapt to the clock over his desk before he grimaced. Nothing ever good came of a phone call at 4 in the morning, especially on the Hellmouth. The scratchy voice of the sleep-deprived woman on the other end had his eyes closing in mute misery. ‘Giles, who is the White Queen, and does she have anything to do with why Buffy hasn’t been home since yesterday evening? My baby... she’s... Oh tell me it’s all in my head Giles, tell me nothing’s wrong and she’s beside you and I can talk to her right now!’

 

He cringes reflexively. ‘Ms. Summers- Joyce. How did you-? Nevermind. Unfortunately you are only partially correct, the dear girl  _is_ beside me, but  _(a fortifying breath)_  she is unable to reassure you as to her wellbeing. I am afraid I have been the recipient of perhaps the worst home delivery in history.’

 

‘Oh God! Oh my God... Giles do you mean to tell me that someone has delivered my daughter to you? This is that Slayer nonsense she was going on about isn’t it? That ‘early expiration date’? So help me if she is dead! Oh God... she is, isn’t she? I just know it. I woke up this morning with just the most awful feeling, and then someone knocked on my door. I thought perhaps Buffy had locked herself out after a long patrol, you know how forgetful she gets- oh  _(a sob)_  –got. I found an envelope on the doorstep. There was a note, it just said “Black Knight takes White Queen” and there was your number written on the reverse! Giles who would write such a horrifying thing? I’m coming over now; I hope you don’t plan on keeping me out when you have my little girl there’

 

‘I wouldn’t dream of it my dear; I told you my door is always open. I am so sorry it is under such terrible circumstances though. I have some things I need to share with you that I think would be best related in person. It appears- well- I hope I am not misinterpreting it but- Oh, just come over and I will let you see what it is for yourself.’

 

Just as the pale fingers of dawn begin stroking the horizon, a grieving mother reaches the last resting place of her child. She knocks quietly at the door and is immediately granted ingress. A heart-broken wail is heard, faintly. Then the half-light of the rising sun is left to brighten a diurnal course that no parent should have to bear, that day that they survive their own offspring.

 

‘So what you are saying is that she was  _SUPPOSED_  to just die?! That there was no choice and no way to prevent it?’

 

‘It would appear that there was a slight chance that it wouldn’t be necessary, but this prophecy deals with the assumption that the worst did in fact occur. The  _hope_  is that my welsh is not so rusty as to have completely mangled the translation, that she is indeed supposed to return. I know it’s a long shot my dear lady, but if I may? I believe it is entirely viable. She was a very special young lady, and the fact that there is such a clear instruction on retrieving her spirit makes it likely that the Powers are not done with her yet; it appears she is to become a Champion of sorts. Here, I’ll show you what I have so far.’

 

Amidst the notes and crumpled paper is a piece of parchment very like the piece that she had received her cryptic note on. Underneath it is a line by line translation;

_Ai Brenhines Gwen chodymau , 'r byrddia hysgubir_

If White Queen falls, the board is swept

_Mae'r Hyrwyddwr yn dysgu o'r newydd_

The Champion learns anew

_Gwreichionen addysgir 'r rhyfelwyr chyfundrefn_

Spark is taught the warriors code

_Dychwelodd i ymladd, ail-bendithio gan dynged_

Returned to fight, re-blessed by fate

_Os Gwyliwr yn hedfan i ddal y seren_

If Watcher flies to catch the star

_Mae disgleirdeb dros fynydd Saeson yn_

A brightness over Saeson’s mount

_Gwynnwy Blanc yn dwyn y llwybr cartref_

White Horse bears the pathway home

_Achos Bencampwr - addysgedig rhyfelwr 'n grai_

For Champion-taught a warrior new

_Hon 'na must 'r ceisiedydd arwedda_

This then must the seeker bear

_At chyrch 'r Brenhines Gwen addef_

To bring the White Queen home

_A 'n euraid chlo, 'r _Brenhines Gwen_  ddiwyg_

An golden lock, the White Queen’s garb

_Arian agoriad, er bob amser 'n awchlym_

An silver key, though ever sharp

_A 'n goch 'r bannod chan Dadau asgre_

And red the line of Father’s heart

_Er e bod mo chrau 'r carennydd amlyma_

Though he be not blood the kinship clear

 

‘And you think she’s this White Queen? Who’s the black knight that ‘took’ her? I think you are missing something here, is this all you have to go on?’

 

‘Unfortunately yes, this is all. Judging by her wounds-‘

 

‘Oh God they hurt my poor baby so badly! She’s so pale’ Joyce sobs. The shock is wearing off and it’s hitting her hard.

 

‘Judging by the wounds, she’s been exsanguinated. That is, it was almost certainly a vampire. There is only one set of bite-marks, and given the fact that her throat is not torn out or mangled, she was no longer capable of struggling. Buffy has been highly resistant to thralls since her run-in with the Master last year, so I would hazard a guess that she fought a vampire of master status, who was either working alone or had lost all their minions by this point. They would have had to overpower her and incapacitate her for long enough to drain her. No simple task.’

 

‘I don’t care about all that, I just want my baby back. My poor Buffy!’

 

‘Allow me to make you a cup of tea Joyce, we can discuss what needs to be done and make a plan. I still need to go through some of my books.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special mention to Aderyn Du over at Elysian Fields for finetuning my Welsh.
> 
> Special thanks goes to SleepingTigress at EF for her help in keeping me on the straight and narrow. Without her I'd not have had the stones to do this. I am by no means truly comfortable with writing fanfics, but she and a few others have been nothing but encouraging and supportive. My abject apologies to any Welsh speaking natives reading this and potentially weeping and gnashing their teeth at my translation. I went through as many sites as I could and did a line by line translation so that it'd be as accurate as possible for someone who couldn't speak or understand Welsh if you held a gun to my head. If you can finetune it and make it more accurate according to the translation I've provided I'd be much obliged if you'd drop me a line. Reviews make my muse come play with me, especially constructive crits.
> 
> Be aware, the prediction Giles received is not complete
> 
> Also, Saeson's Mount and the White Horse refer to the Uffington Horse in Oxfordshire, the oldest chalk-cut turf horse in Britain, it dates from around 1000 BC (Late Bronze Age) or so, perhaps as late as 100 AD (Iron Age)
> 
>  
> 
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Uffington_White_Horse


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously on Bleed Black: Spike notches his Third Slayer, and heals his Dark Princess. Giles receives the Worst Home Delivery Ever, discovering a heretofor Unknown Prophecy in the process; and Joyce wins Recipient Of The Creepiest Note In Sunnydale. Joyce and Giles Make Plans, and Buffy wakes up Elsewhere.
> 
>  
> 
> Chapter Four: In which Spike and Dru skip town, and Buffy learns a little more about her current Whereabouts. The Watcher and the Mother conspire to keep the Scoobies and Angel in the Dark, and Whistler gets an Uncomfortable Summons from the PTB. Angel, of course, Broods like a Nesting Hen.
> 
>  
> 
> Much love to my taskmistress- I mean lovely beta SleepingTigress, who cracked the whip over me so I could give this to you lot.

He had a headache. Which was strange, bein’ dead ought to exempt you from the maladies of the sodding human condition. Only time his head should throb was when it got clobbered. * _Remember that blond fire-cracker? She made it hurt so good._ * He’d found Dru o’course, wanderin’ downtown Sunnyhell like it was her soddin’ backyard. The pixies had done a right number on her this time. She’d been soaking wet and stumbling vacant-eyed from streetlight to streetlight, face flickering to demon-glare and back again like a poorly tuned telly. At least it appeared she’d eaten, her lower face and chest were blood-smeared.

 

He glanced at her in the passenger seat beside him. She’d been sub-vocalising for over an hour now, and between the animalistic whining and off-key humming he was about ready to go completely spare. * _That’s it_ * -click-

 

_Mama, where's your little daughter?_

_She’s here, right here on the altar_

_You should never have opened that door_

_now you're never gonna see her no more_

_You don't know what I can do with this axe chop off your head_

_so you better relax_

 

He smirked, * _Well ain’t that cute?_ * turned the radio up til he couldn’t hear Dru anymore, and kept driving.

  
  


* * *

 

  
'I’ll just go on a buying trip Mr Giles, I can put it on business expenses then, and I have a few contacts there who’ve wanted to meet me for a while.’

 

‘Well that will cover your coming then. I can simply go back and report- No I can’t actually. If I report Buffy’s demise to the Council they’ll have no reason to let me come back, and once Buffy is re-corporealised she’ll need me back here. I shall instead go under the premise of a research trip, there is a veritable cornucopia of books I haven’t access to at the Council Headquarters Library’

 

‘Mr Giles, a thought occurs to me, what are we supposed to tell her friends? I wouldn’t wish to worry them, and if we are going to get her back it seems cruel to tell them what has happened.’

 

‘Quite. I had thought… Perhaps… I have something. There is a sort of vision quest between a Watcher and his charge, sometimes. If I were to intimate that she was unable to communicate at this time- which would be a perfect truth- we could stave off their undue worry and gain some lee-way in which to work on gaining her back. It might be best to avoid telling Angel altogether, he knows a little more about the sorts of rituals and activities of Slayers and their Watchers than do Xander and Willow. You can probably let the school know that she is going on holiday with you and get her schoolwork, which would support the theory of her quest to her friends, and satisfy that berk Snyder and her teachers as to her keeping up with the syllabus.’

 

‘You know, I somehow doubt that vile little man is ever satisfied about anything.’

 

Giles chuckled at that, almost surprised that he could under the circumstances. Joyce smiled wanly as she stood, taking her empty cup to the sink before gathering her coat and handbag near the entryway. ‘Do keep in touch Mr Giles, let me know when you have the tickets and when we leave.’

 

‘Oh not for a good two weeks my dear, I have some things I need to organise, and some people to contact. There is a coven in Devon that might be able to help, and I know a Watcher friend in Wales who might be able to clear a few things up in regards to this prophecy of ours. We WILL get Buffy back Ms Summers-’

 

‘Oh for Heavens sakes call me Joyce already! We know each other far too well for this formal nonsense.’

 

‘Quite right. Well you mustn’t feel the need to be formal with me either, Ms- I mean, Joyce. Do be careful on your way back. I’ll make arrangements to leave town now, you can let Buffy’s friends know she’s gone with me. This way we can keep them from finding out she’s gone already.’

 

 

* * *

 

  
Buffy looked around curiously as she followed the larger woman from the room she’d woken up in. Stone walls, big carpet-looking things hung from the walls in some places, and the windows were tiny, barely wider than her hand. There were torches on the walls and how weird was that? Did these people not know about electricity? After navigating a horrifyingly steep flight of stairs, * _Why are there no handrails? Vertigo-Buffy demands handrails!_ * they entered a wide passageway with a thick runner of scuffed, hand-woven carpet, and yet more torches, supporting her theory that they had no clue about modern conveniences. 

 

A rhythmic sound in the distance, muffled by the thick walls, grew steadily louder, until she passed a door that opened onto a large courtyard with a dirt floor. There was a group of about 16 students, ranging in age from what looked like an eight year old, to a young man in his twenties. They all faced off in pairs, and were sparring with wooden staves under the stern glare of a rugged one-eyed man. He was barking instructions as they struggled to keep their opponents from connecting with a hit. ‘Come away from that door, dearie, plenty of time to get acquainted to thy fellows after tha’s had some refreshment. Tha’ll begin thy training on the morrow, bright and early. This afternoon tha’ll see to the book learnin’ for thy stay here.’

 

Buffy groaned, * _I can’t even die to escape school. That’s it, I’m SURE now that I’m in some sort of Hell dimension_ * but made no comment as she trudged behind her guide, still yawning and rubbing at her eyes.

  
  
  


* * *

 

  
He wasn’t sure where it had all gone to pot, but he knew he was in some deep shit when this was all over. * _She definitely wasn’t s’posed to snuff it this early. Ah hell. What’ll I tell ‘em? What CAN I tell ‘em? “Sorry, got the wrong guy, the right one slipped under the radar, I lost him and now he’s gone and screwed the pooch?” I'm SURE this guy was supposed to be it, he has a soul for Pete’s sake. Now what do I do?_ *

 

Wincing as he felt the pull on his spirit, the ugly little man bowed his head and winked out of this plane. The place he ended up in wasn’t so much a dimension as it was the between of it all. It always disoriented him, the way the negative space affected his vision. His stomach roiled with the pull of all the conflicting energies. Beings such as he was did not belong here, and the multiverse tried to correct that by shunting them across to the closest (but that was inaccurate, you could get to anywhere-or when- from here) dimension that would have them. Something like sweat broke out on his brow and he mopped at it, held here by the will of more powerful beings than he.

 

- _WHISTLER_ -

 

* _Ah Hells, here we go_ *

 

- _CARE TO EXPLAIN WHAT EXACTLY HAS OCCURRED HERE?_ -

 

* _Sounds just like my Mother_ * ‘Uh, sure Boss. I uh- well, funny story really…’

 

- _REALLY? FUNNY STORY. FUNNY, THAT YOU HAVE SO FAILED YOUR GIVEN TASK, A SIMPLE REQUEST, THAT OUR CHOSEN LIES DEAD ON HER HOME PLANE? FUNNY, THAT INSTEAD OF SENDING HER TO YNYS SCI_  AFTER _SHE COMES OF AGE, WE ARE FORCED TO SALVAGE HER SOUL BEFORE IT MOVES ON TO ELYSIUM AND POUR IT INTO A HASTILY BUILT SIMULACRUM OF HER OWN BODY TWO YEARS BEFORE IT IS TIME? THAT KIND OF FUNNY?_ -

 

He gave a wheezing chuckle of incipient panic. ‘Uh, well when you put it like that… kinda doesn’t sound so good for me, does it?’

 

- _AND YOU ARE ONLY JUST_  NOW  _CATCHING ON? DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH MORE WORK YOU’VE CREATED WITH THIS DEBACLE? WE HAD TO CREATE A TEMPORAL DISPLACEMENT AND PUSH A SEER INTO A TRANCE, JUST SO THAT WE HAD A CONTINGENCY PROPHECY FOR THIS. YOU HAD BETTER HOPE THAT THIS IS SALVAGEABLE BECAUSE WITH YOUR LITTLE MUCK-UP BUFFY’S DEATH HAS BECOME_   _IMMUTABLE_   _WITHIN THIS TIMELINE. DO YOU KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS, WHISTLER? YOU CAN’T FIX THIS BY REWINDING THE CLOCK, IT WILL_ ALWAYS _HAPPEN_ _._ -

 

‘So what do I do? Am I even still on this case? If this is unfixable wouldn’t it be better to just- I dunno- let this one go? You’ve done it before, letting a dimension follow through to a natural end, wouldn’t that make things simpler?’

 

- _WE_ COULD _DO THIS. IT WOULD CERTAINLY BE EASIER. HOWEVER, WE THOUGHT TO GIVE YOU A CHANCE AT CONTINUED EXISTENCE. THAT BEING UNDERSTOOD, IF YOU WISH FOR OBLIVION WE WON’T ARGUE._ -

 

‘I don’t understand, how does my life connect to wipin’ the slate here?’

 

- _REMEMBER WHEN YOU WERE FIRST EMPOWERED TO WORK FOR US? WHICH DIMENSION DID WE PULL YOU FROM? DID YOU KNOW, THAT IF THAT DIMENSION CEASED TO EXIST DUE TO THE APOCALYPSE EVENT YOU’VE TRIGGERED WITH YOUR NEGLIGENCE, THAT YOU TOO WOULD CEASE TO EXIST? WE ARE NOT OMNIPOTENT, THOUGH IT IS A NEAR THING. EVEN WE WORK WITHIN PARAMETERS._ -

 

‘Oh.’

 

- _YES. “OH”. YOU STILL HAVE A LITTLE TIME. THERE IS HOPE THAT WHAT OUR CHAMPION LEARNS WILL ACTUALLY LEAD HER TO A CONCLUSION THAT ALLOWS FOR THE CONTINUED EXISTENCE OF YOUR HOME PLANE. THERE IS EVEN A CHANCE THAT OUR OUTSIDE WAGER WILL BEGIN DOWN THE PATH HE WAS BEING GROOMED FOR, DESPITE THE SHEER UNLIKELINESS OF THIS OCCURRING WITHOUT OUTSIDE INTERVENTION. THANKFULLY WE STILL HAVE PIECES IN PLAY TO ASSIST YOU. WHAT WE NEED FROM YOU NOW WHISTLER, IS FOR YOU TO RETURN, AND SET THIS PLAY IN MOTION_ -

 

His head is flooded suddenly with information. Clutching his now throbbing skull, Whistler is winked out of existence as his superiors’ attention shifts from him. * _Coulda been worse I guess. Least I only gotta play Cupid to a pair of super-stubborn super-beings. Piece'a cake! Dimensions’ continued existence only relies on it, nothin to worry about here. I got this. No pressure._ *

  
  


* * *

 

 

Angel was a little perturbed. Buffy hadn’t shown up last night, and she’d taken to following him around like an overgrown puppy of late. It was kinda cute, with a perverse and star-crossed-Romeo-Juliet kinda vibe to it. He tried to feel ashamed that her naive innocence and barely mature body turned him on so badly, but he couldn’t seem to help himself. Both as Liam and Angelus he’d reveled in fresh-faced youth, the younger the better. That wasn’t to say that he’d not enjoyed the more experienced skill-set of slightly older women, most notably his Sire Darla, who’d been turned in her late twenties. But the fact remained that there was something about the budding breasts and slim hips of a young woman.

 

Liam had been a rakehell and a drunken layabout, Angelus took a darker kind of pleasure in corrupting innocents. Angel had a century to ponder the depths of his depravity, snowed under by a crushing sense of guilt and shame, but it wasn’t enough to quite smother the pleasure he remembered. His demon might be chained now by the curse, but it still hungered, and he’d never be free of that appetite.

 

He’d kept away from Buffy for as long as he could, but since she was apparently part of his journey of redemption he couldn’t leave altogether. Slowly his resolve had weakened, and he found himself under her window almost nightly, trailing her on patrols and once, even kissing her. That last had been a monumental mistake and he’d nearly lost control, vamping out briefly and scaring the lass silly. Funny that she hadn’t suspected he was a vampire until that night, but he thought maybe it was because of the soul, or simply that she hadn’t  _wanted_  him to be a vampire. Infatuation was blind and the way she looked at him with her heart in her eyes was gratifying and intoxicating. He’d always loved that soft bedroom gaze, right before he tor- No! He wasn’t like that anymore, he wasn’t  _Angelus_  anymore.

 

He sighed, scrubbing his face. This redemption business was hard going apparently. Suddenly, there was a pop of displaced air behind him. He whirled, hands up defensively, before dropping them and grimacing. It was that odd, ugly little guy that’d dragged him from the sewers and shown him his destiny. ‘Hello Whistler, what’s going on?’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter End Notes:  
> Lyrics in Spikes' scene are from the Ramones' song You Should Never Have Opened That Door. A funny little piece, and way too catchy & upbeat for the lyrics. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VOnhuMc2Vlc studio version there. The demo version is a bit of alright too.
> 
>  
> 
> That bit where Spike thinks the lyrics are 'cute'? I used the british colloquial/traditional meaning, where cute implies cheeky.
> 
>  
> 
> Yeah I know, there's a lot of Celtic mythology floating around this piece already, and then I thump a clunking Greek name for the Afterlife in, but please bear with me. The 'voice' of the Powers that are 'speaking' with Whistler aren't traveling on soundwaves. They kinda insert themselves in your skull without passing through your ears first. So the 'words' used are more an interpretation that the listener puts on them, as they are more like complex ideas than actual words. You can imagine how disorienting it would be to commune with these guys, in the negative space between dimensions?


	5. First Impressions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously on Bleed Black: Spike and Dru Skip Town, and Buffy is promised Breakfast. Whistler gets a Talking To, and Angel broods about himself.
> 
> Chapter Five: In which Buffy finds out what makes a Breakfast at Ynys Sci, and is Not Pleased. In which there First Impressions of the Negative kind, Whistler breaks the news to Angel and Angel decides whether he goes, stays or lurks in Sunnyhell.

She didn’t know what she’d expected, but this certainly wasn’t it. MorningBuffy knew what made a good breakfast; it was caffeine-y mocha goodness, with a side of deep-fried carbohydrates in doughnut shape. This most emphatically was not what was in front of her. For one, it needed a bowl to hold it, and for another it was kinda, lumpy? And tan-coloured. Even the pancakes? Oddly lumpy, but sort of a cross between pancakes and doughnuts, if doughnuts or pancakes had flecks of dried fruit in them. At least there was butter, and plenty of it. A small pot of honey too, and what appeared to be tea. This was all well and good if you were  _Giles_ , but the people of the world on perpetual night-shift needed something a bit stronger in the morning, just to help them face the day.

 

After trying the contents of the bowl she grimaced and set it aside. It wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t what she’d have chosen for breakfast. It was thick and buttery and studded with dried apple, but it stuck to the roof of her mouth a little. Reaching for one of the pancake-looking things, she tore it in half and smeared some butter on it with her spoon. Taking a bite she closed her eyes for a moment. * _Definitely fried yummy goodness. I could get used to these_ * Turning to the mug in front of her she added a little honey and took a sip, figuring caffeine in any form was better than nothing. Her eyes widened and she gagged a little, choking at the unexpected flavour. It tasted of flowers and faintly of dirt, mixed with a strong honey aroma. Definitely not any tea she was used to. She eyed it in consternation. * _How am I gonna make it through a day without decent tea even? I’m so gonna kill that bleached freak!_ *

 

Giving up on the ‘tea’ she returned to the fried bread things. Slathering butter over another one, this time she drizzled honey on it as well, and cramming a huge bite down she chewed with gusto. Since her guide appeared to have vanished, and there was nobody else in the large hall, Buffy figured that there was little use complaining out loud. It just wasn’t as satisfying when no-one could hear you. Having depleted the slightly chewy doughnut wannabes, she turned with a sigh to the bowl of lukewarm cereal. She was still fairly hungry * _I guess dying really takes it out of you, who knew?_ * so she ended up scraping the bowl clean in fairly short order. * _Never gonna be my favourite, but at least it’s filling_ *

 

As if sensing that she’d finished, her guide bustled back into the hall, presumably to guide her to her afternoon tutor. ‘Leave thy dishes here Sunshine, tha needs be getting a move on, thy instructor awaits.’ Buffy grimaced, but stood. As they strode down the passageway, still heading away from the room she’d woken in, the Slayer questioned her companion. What she learned didn’t really help her much, but she did find out that the lady she was following went by Ceri here, which was a place called Ynys Sci, and apparently, a warrior school of great renown. To hear Ceri talking about it, it was where heroes came to learn their craft, and Champions left when deemed worthy. ‘Tha did come a mite too early Dearheart, hence thy time is limited more closely than most. ‘Tis much more common that tha hast five turns of the seasons at the very least, and it was planned thus for tha, til tha had that unfortunate altercation with thy mortal foe.’

 

‘I’m gonna just pretend I understood all that, ok? I mean, your accent is pretty tough to figure out ya know? So, I kinda got that normally I’d, what, be here for five years? Kinda like Slayer College? Only I’m early on account of biting the big one and so I only get a crash course? Is that it?’

 

‘Sommat like that dearie. Tha’ll be brought back in due time, shouldst tha need it, an fer the proper length of time. Happen it goes faster here, tha’ll find only a month or two has passed in thy homeland.’

 

Digesting that little tidbit would take some time, so she simply followed Ceri as she was led further into the sprawling pile that was apparently to be her home for the next subjective year. It was wiggy enough that she was seemingly solid enough to require food and drink after having died. The passageway they followed took an abrupt turn, and through the wide doorway at the far end she could make out an immense library of some sort. She could also hear the rich, sonorous tones of a man reciting an odd poem.

 

_"I was the foreman_

_At the construction of Nimrod's Tower._

_I was three times_

_In the prison of Arianrhod._

 

On the surface it made a strange sort of sense in places.

 

_"I was at the Cross_

_With Mary Magdalene._

_I received the muse_

_From Ceridwen's cauldron._

But the way he spoke the words, as if telling a tale of his own life, made the meaning seem ridiculous. No man could have lived to see the Crucifixion, not if they were alive today.

 

_"I was at the White Mount_

_in the court of Cynfelyn._

_In stocks and in fetters_

_For a year and a day._

_"I was in the larder_

_In the land of the Trinity._

_And no-one knows whether my body_

_Is flesh or fish._

_"I was instructor_

_To the whole universe._

_I shall be until the judgement_

_On the face of the Earth._

 

Ceri grinned indulgently as she came to a halt outside the doors. ‘Thy teacher is in a rare good mood Sunshine. ‘Tis his favourite poesy he speaks. One of his first,’ so saying, she ushered her charge forward, and when Buffy turned to thank her for the direction, she had vanished. * _Odd, there aren’t any doors nearby, and not even a starved cat could get through these windows_ *

 

Shrugging, she headed into the large, book filled room. She couldn’t see anyone from her quick glance around the place, but there were so many floor-to-ceiling shelves in the area it was like a maze, with the only clear space a large central circle, marked out with desks and benches. There was the odd chair or two as well, but the centre of the room was what caught her attention.

 

The clear space in the middle was cordoned off by chalked symbols and oddly glowing daubs of some kind of ink, worked into an intricate pattern. Buffy found her eyes refusing to focus on it, sliding off to view it from her periphery. The lines seemed to pulsate, drawing her in and making her head spin. Dizzy, she felt herself stumbling forward, almost against her will. In fact, when she tried to stop and catch her breath for a moment, nothing happened. Beginning to panic a little she opened her mouth-

 

‘Don’t speak a word you foolish child! Do you have any idea what you almost did? Has nobody taught you not to interrupt a body in the middle of a working?! By the Teeth of Blessed Epona, you are the most ignorant wench!’

 

Green eyes ignited in fury at the sight of an irate twenty-something suddenly appearing in front of her with his hand over her mouth. His shoulder-length hair was dark red and coarse, with a white streak at his brow. Deep-set hazel eyes snapped with irritation at her supposed intrusion, and she huffed indignantly before opening her mouth again in protest. ‘Quiet I said! Not one word until I am finished with this. If anyone else speaks within 20 feet of this ring the whole thing will end in disaster. I have absolutely no wish at all to spend the next decade as a tree, do you hear me?’ She sullenly nodded, eyes still sparkling with anger. ‘Good. Now sit down, keep your pretty pink lips shut and touch nothing until I tell you it’s safe.’ Fuming, Buffy sat down- hard- on one of the few chairs, tucking her hands between her knees and turning her head from the nauseating lines of power.

 

* _This is his GOOD mood? Holy crapola. What a jerk!_ *

‘I heard that, girl. Hush. No distractions. Go meditate or something.’ Her best slayerly glare goes completely un-noticed as the lanky man raises his arms and chants yet another verse that doesn’t make much sense. Mostly because it’s in a guttural demony-sounding language. When he finishes, he claps his hands and with a flash the screwy pattern vanishes. He turns to her with a grin. ‘The beginning of eternity, the end of time and space; the beginning of every end, and the end of every place.’

 

‘Huh?’ An incredulous face.

 

A condescending smirk. ‘Freya’s Tits girl, are you truly dense? It’s the most commonly used letter in the English alphabet.’

 

‘I’m supposed to know that off the top of my head? I’m the Slayer! I kill things without a heartbeat, I don’t get extra credit for knowing weird stuff about how I talk.’

 

‘Well that is unacceptable. Just because you might die at any time is no excuse to slack off on your education.’ He turns away and strides off into the stacks. Sulkily she stays where she was seated, still angered almost beyond reason by this supremely annoying man. * _Just who the heck does he think he IS anyway?_ *

 

Wafting from the direction he’d disappeared in, as if in direct response to her thoughts;

 

_“Primary chief poet_

_Am I to Elphin._

_And my native country_

_Is the place of the Summer Stars._

 

_"John the Divine_

_Called me Merlin,_

_But all future kings_

_Shall call me Taliesin._

 

_"I was nine full months_

_In the womb of Ceridwen._

_Before that I was Gwion,_

_But now I am Taliesin._

 

When he wandered back some 20 minutes later, he had an small stack of books piled in his arms. She peered warily at them, it all looked suspiciously like- ‘Homework. I want you to read at least one of these by tomorrow afternoon and be ready to discuss it with me. I’m going to be your primary guide for the cerebral stuff, and gods willing you’ll actually get somewhere by the time you toddle off back to the Mundane.’

 

‘Um… We kind of haven’t been introduced yet? I’m-’

 

‘I know who you are, girl. If you had been listening at all since you got here you’d know who I am. I practically spelled it out for you after all.’ A long-suffering grimace accompanies this remark, and he shoves the pile of books at her. ‘Now scoot, I have important things to attend to.’

 

Startled at the rude dismissal, she grabbed the books before they fell and stumbled around towards the door. * _So gonna end up screaming at this guy._  ‘More important stuff-’  _What. An. Ass_ *

 

‘Hey! I resemble that.’

 

 

* * *

  
  


  **‘Hello Whistler, what’s going on?’**

 

* _Wonder how far around his head would spin if I told him the half of what I gotta deal with right now?_ * ‘Well we’ve hit a bit of a snag here kid, seems our Slayer has gone dark, off the radar so to speak. I need you to cover for us until we can bring her back.’

 

‘What do you mean, ‘gone dark’? What the hell is going on? She hasn’t patrolled at all in the last three days, where is she?’

 

‘Well see, that’s the thing, kid. She’s been sorta recalled by the PTB for some extra training stuff. We need you to watch the Hellmouth for her for about a month or so, two tops.’

 

‘Wait, what? Why me? Isn’t there anyone else? What about my destiny? I should be wherever Buffy is.’

 

‘Yeah sure kid, there’s another girl, but she won’t get here for a week or two, there’s some stuff tyin’ her down in Jamaica and that leaves us with a vulnerable Hellmouth. You gonna do it or do I tell the PTB you ain’t interested in redemption?’

 

‘I’ll stay. I gotta make sure it's safe for when she gets back, don't I?’

 

‘Sure kid’ * _Whatever it takes to keep you here anyway_ *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter End Notes:  
> The poetry used in this chapter is the boasting of Taliesin to the great king Maelgwn and may be seen in its' entirety here: http://www.pantheon.org/articles/t/taliesin.html


	6. What A Man Does

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously on Bleed Black: Buffy is Decidedly Caffeine Deficient, and is set Homework by a man of Legend. First Impressions are Poor. Whistler Guilts Angel into Defending the Hellmouth, and we learn of a new Slayer in Jamaica.
> 
>  
> 
> Chapter Six: In which even Spike cannot escape Introspection, goes for a Drive, gets Hungry and forgets to Kill Something. Joyce Lies and Willow is Gullible

You'd think a blood-reliant species would recognise its distant relations, but the sodding mosquitoes still bit him whenever he'd fed. Gods he hated Brazil at times. Beautiful place, plenty of scantily dressed snacks and the heat made them smell _so_ much more intoxicating. But the bugs left something to be desired, and Dru was more distant than the moon. The last time she’d touched him in her right mind had been that night she’d slapped him for _saving_ her. Things you do for the woman, an’ half the time she won’t even look at you without screamin’ ‘bout the fucking sunshine. He’d half a mind to walk outside of a morning just to show her why he’d taste of ashes if he played with sunlight.

 

He flicked his lighter on and off, watching the flint striker spark and catch at the tiny stream of butane to create light and heat. Such a small thing to be so deadly to his kind. _Beautiful_. It danced like sunlight through leaves, and how he remembered _that_ but not his middle names from his human years was beyond him. Grinning idly he thought about other dances he’d had over the years. When he’d been first turned, the violence fresh and the blood scalding, a dance with Drusilla down a corpse-strewn room in their blood-soaked finery was the height of exhilaration. Later, when Angelus had taken him in hand, it had been learning the joys (and boredoms, God, the Forehead could drag it out to the bitterest most dull extremity) of the hunt. The thrill of adrenaline pumping down his throat with the blood of his victims. _Too hasty_ , he was deemed, and the bog-trotting poofter would take to beating him to a bloody pulp time and time again. Torturing him when this failed to instil the proper _caution and finesse_ of an apex hunter. Ha! Give him a pint of blood, a bottle of whiskey, and a stand-up knock-down and he was in paradise. The bigger the challenge, the more his blood heated.

 

All that had led him to seeking the biggest game his kind could aspire to. The Slayer. One girl in all the world, et cetera. What started as a threat to curb him after his latest mob brawl, instead whetted a craving for the biggest challenge of them all. Find the Light’s one flame and snuff it out in a glorious confrontation. These warrior-maids, and have no doubt, even the least among them was a formidable opponent, were Called up one by one to do battle against the Dark in a neverending cycle of noble sacrifice. The instant one died, another, somewhere in the world, was Called to her duty. It was poetry.

 

He could dance for eternity with these bright valkyries and barring the universe going down in flames he’d always have another partner at the end. If he made it past the current one that is. Christ, the amount of times he’d nearly dusted to one. He’d only truly won two- no, three now, of these epic clashes, but he’d fought a fair few more. Usually the circumstances weren’t right for one reason or another. Either the Slayer was too new and thus not enough of a challenge, so he’d back off to let her grow, only to have her felled by another, or he’d only catch up with her when she was too injured to take him on. Those often died from other agencies before they could heal, if they were hurt that badly in the field chances were that they never made it home. The others were wrong some other way, either he wouldn’t find them in time, or there’d be something off about them and he’d back off sight unseen. Hell, some of them just didn’t have that readiness to die about them. He left those alone. All except one. The last one. The one who died to save his Dark Princess. Gods she’d been fucking _effulgent_ , simply exuding life and goodness. And he’d doused the spark before it had truly ignited. What a blaze she’d have been. If a demon could feel regret… No. His face twisted in a sneer. What was he, fucking _Peaches_?! Some brooding, soul-up-arse ponce? He’d saved his lover, his ripe wicked plum and _nothing_ would make him regret that. He’d kill a hundred, a _thousand_ just like her to save his immortal goddess.

 

Shaking off his oddly introspective mood, he stalked back into the mansion he’d cleared for his princess when they’d arrived in Salvador. Snatching his keys from the side-table near the entrance Spike left the residence without bothering to inform Dru. He just wasn’t up to listening to her moan about white queens or sodding sunshine or any-bloody-thing right now. He was disgruntled, hungry, and if he were anyone else but the Slayer of Slayers you’d be right to call him a little petulant. Things were supposed to get easier in the wake of killing a Slayer. They always had before. Dru would fawn over him for months afterwards, treating him to her voluptuous affections, untrammelled by her visions, or flash-backs. Sometimes she’d be almost entirely lucid, the only indications of her affliction being her tendency to speak to her dollies as if they were responding to her. And then the pixies would eventually return to plague her. This time she’d disappeared for a night and he’d had to hunt her down. She’d been almost catatonic when he’d found her, and hadn’t responded to much beyond blood until he’d gotten them to Brazil. It’d been worth it to freight his beloved DeSoto instead of abandoning or storing it. With luck they wouldn’t be returning to California for at least a year.

 

With the windows rolled down and some Latin American punk station making his ears throb, Spike pulled up a few streets from some hot joint he’d sussed out the other night. There weren’t all that many clubs in Salvador, surprisingly; it was a city that ran more to massive street parties. Great come-as-you-are affairs, wall-to-wall people and noise that was almost tangible. He loved it. The feeling of great masses of humanity casually crowding around him, brushing past, getting caught up in the pulsating life and exuberance of a city-wide celebration. But sometimes he liked the relative peace and quiet of one of the dance-bars. He just wanted a quiet meal and maybe a drink or two.

 

He wasn’t really choosy tonight, but this one bird pricked his demons’ interest. Petite, brunette, and a hell of a dancer. He caught her eye and winked with an enticing smirk. She laughed and danced toward him, arms up in the air twining sinuously, hips writhing sinfully as she strutted over. He coaxed her to the bar and bought her a drink, gradually herding her towards the back exit that opened into an alley. Once there he lost no time, vamping out and slicing into her throat. Her initial struggles slowed as she gave a throaty moan, the terror adding spice to his supper.

 

He sealed her wounds and released the woman without processing it, and she dropped unconscious to the alley floor. He wiped his mouth on his hand, licking up the residue, before propping his victim against the wall, right beside the service entrance to the club. Lighting a cigarette Spike sauntered back within the pulsing semi-dark, duster swirling in his wake. Hunger still prickled through his veins, making the demon within restless. He barely registered that he’d left his meal half-finished, and thought nothing of topping up on a pretty young blonde as he passed back through the venue. He left her slumped insensible in a darkened booth along the wall. She’d be assumed to be drunk and shouldn’t come to too much grief there. Shaking his head irritably, he was left confused by that thought; since when did he care about the well-being of _cattle_?

 

As he drove back to where he and Dru had nested, the raucous strains of Release the Bats drove all thoughts of dinner from his mind.

 

 

* * *

 

 

‘I-is Buffy around? She was supposed to go over her maths assignment with me last night and she never showed up. I th-thought maybe she had a long patrol or something, but she didn’t come to school today either, and now I’m all with the worry girl and maybe she’s sick, o-or did something happen is she hurt maybe? Sh-she isn’t hurt is she?’

 

‘Oh, I’m so sorry, didn’t she tell you? That girl is so scatterbrained at times! Giles came over about some sort of Slayer Retreat thing. A Vision Quest I think he said? Apparently when a Slayer is called who wasn’t tutored by Watchers as a Potential, they often send her to a training camp. Unfortunately while she is there we can’t contact her personally, but it’s only for a month or so, so she’ll be back before you know it. I do wish she’d called you beforehand though, this is entirely like her to forget I’m afraid.’

 

Anyone who knew Joyce would have seen immediately through her thin excuses and strained voice to the distraught woman beneath the facade, but Willow was too concerned about the perceived slight of her friend to notice that Joyce wasn’t being entirely honest. * _At least I can still fool a teenager. Go me!_ * she thought bitterly. ‘If you would be a dear and perhaps let Xander know for me? I simply must get organised for this purchasing trip. I’ll be gone a few weeks myself.’

 

‘O-ok Mrs Summers. I think I can do that. I’m all with the information now. A-are you going to be ok? You sound kinda funny… not that you are! I mean-’

 

‘I’m fine dear, thank you for asking. I’m just a little under the weather and pre-occupied is all.’

 

‘Ok! I’ll just hang up now cuz I gotta call Xander, so I’ll say bye now Mrs Summers! Bye.’

 

* _Oh baby, please don’t be truly gone! I hope this is going to work, I can’t bear to lose my precious girl like this._ *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter End Notes:  
> Release the Bats is a song by Nick Cave's punk band The Birthday Party. Well worth a listen if you like raucous loud punky yelling.


	7. Beyond The Usual

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously On Bleed Black: Spike nearly Broods, forgets to Kill dinner, and wonders Why. Joyce gets away with Lying because Willow is a trusting girl.
> 
>  
> 
> Chapter Seven: Taliesin Makes Plans, Morgan uncovers more of The Prophecy and shares it with Giles. Morgan is Not What He Seems, Dru is a-Dru-able and Seer-like, and Spike Packs for a Trip.

He sniggered to himself as he jotted notes down. The quill scratched steadily in the candle-light as he recalled the look on her face. Utterly priceless. Obviously the chit was young, but there was a lot of potential for her to become something quite extraordinary. There was so much to do and not enough time to do it all. A year and a day may be the mythical standard but hell if it didn't tighten the schedule to breaking point. You could only stretch the temporal cloth so far before it tore, and he still had to keep things on the other side from unravelling. With a sigh he put aside his pen and sanded the sheet.

What did Mother think she was doing anyway? If she wasn't careful, she'd give the game away before it began, and who knew what would happen then. Fine- fine, tell her she'd died. It was necessary after all- but really, it was as if she took the girl at face value, accepting her apparent lack of sense without question. Which was not only silly, it was bloody  _dangerous_. They had a mission that went far beyond merely giving the girl some pointers, and he for one could not afford to lose this gambit. The other side had almost all of the pieces and none of the vulnerabilities. Time to reinforce the prophecy and re-educate his friend.

* * *

Gile picked the phone up on the second ring. He'd been pacing by the wall where it hung now for a good half-hour, waiting for this call. 'Hello? Morgan?'

'Yes old chap, it's me. I think I've got something for you. Know those verses you sent me? It's interesting. Is that all you've got with you?'

'Quite. My welsh isn't excellent, but even I had picked up there were some pieces missing.'

A snort was audible over the crackle of the transatlantic call, 'Pieces? Try nearly the whole thing, mate. Which codex did you translate from?'

' _Telcham's Minutes_. I only had one book on hand with anything from the 11th century. Left most of my library across the pond with you. Remember that shipment you got six years ago?'

'No wonder. Look, Telcham was a nit. He only did previews of this stuff. There's some really important bits you aren't seeing. This is enough to go on for the ritual, but you're gonna need to come over to my place when you get here and do some proper bloody research before you start messin' with this business. She's already gone, I take it? You've lost the White Queen?'

Giles inhaled and replied miserably, 'Yes. Buffy's gone. We're not sure who it was but it had to have been a Master-strength vampire, she was exsanguinated and quite bloodless when I found her.'

'Before you start trying to find out who it was, you better hear this mate, I have a piece I found just before I called.' There was a pause, as Morgan cleared his throat, then he spoke with a lilting accent, ' _Ganwyd gan olau i wynebu'r tywyll_

_'r Brenhines Gwen gweithfa ar ei ben ei hun_

_Dan Orfod gan ffawd i rannu yn dau_

_Mae'r llinell o ryfelwyr unigol Golau yn_

_Bannau hun at Dynged , a hun at arwain pawb_

_Nawr tynged twyllo, ymgais droi_

_Setiau ddua farchog erbyn 'r ddiwrnod_

_Annwfn s rhyfelwr_ _ymddengys_ _, eiddo ddyled amlyma_

_A chwblha 'i 'n gariadlawn._

_Dan 'r fiswrn 'r caethesau asgre gwylmabsantau,_

_llychwinedig gwynnwy ydy 'n frith._

That's just the part that confirms for sure the identity of the White Queen. Did you or anyone close to her get anything besides that scrap of ritual?'

'Ah, yes. her mother has known of her Calling since last summer. She apparently received a note which used chess terms to tell her Buffy was gone. I believe it was; "Black Knight takes White Queen" and it was rather upsetting for her.'

'No kidding. Nothing else? Ok. The reason I asked was because you need to know this; the Black Knight is central to this whole saga, and not just because he cuts her down. There's more to it than that. Listen, I'll give you the translation;

_Born by light to face the dark_

_The White Queen works alone_

_Forced by fate to split in twain_

_The line of Light's lone warriors_

_Branches one to Destiny, and one to carry all_

_Now fate deceived, attempts recourse_

_Sets black knight against the day_

_Hell's hero appears, his duty clear_

_And he fulfils it lovingly. Beneath the mask_

_The Thrall's heart wakes, tarnished white is grey_ '

'Now fate deceived… is that referring to there being two Slayer lines? Or that Buffy cheated death, yet allowed another to be Called?' Giles frowned as he tried to tease the essential parts of the verse into a recognisable pattern.

'The auguries show there's only one Slayer line, and besides, Council Heads don't know she's dead because no new Slayer has been called after that one in Jamaica. I'd say it was her cheating death. Given that line though; " _forced by fate to split in twain_ ", I'd venture a guess that she'll head a new line, of Champions most like, given the prophecy's contents. I'd get back to you with whatever else I find in the next week, but chances are I won't have anything and you'll have to wait until you get back to England to catch up with me.'

Morgan smiled as he planted the subtle suggestions in the head of his colleague. He knew that Rupert would worry at them and form theories of his own, and for now at least he'd distracted him from hunting down whoever had slain his little girl. He looked down at the pages before him, line after line of predictions, that for all their apparent age hadn't existed even a week before.

Damn he was tired of this leapfrogging. Scrabbling to prevent paradox and apocalypse together, inducing visions and holding the hands of beings who should really know better than to delegate to sub-par subordinates. He set the circle to take him a month into the past and sideways, and slipped into some less anachronistic clothing before stepping into the glowing centre.

* * *

Miss Edith is a dreadful liar, always telling us the pixies mean no harm. Malicious tricksy creatures, stealing all my cake, and how's a girl to have a proper tea with no cake? It was hardly a picnic without sunshine, but unless the White gambit paid off it would only be moonlit strolls for Miss Edith. Nasty creatures, scrabbling and skittering like hungry rats.  _Scritch Scritch_  in my skull-  _Scritch Scritch,_  until I think that my hair shall fall right out and leave me bald. My sweet poet tells me it shall never happen but even he doesn't know the terrible things the moon whispers to me.

It is nearly time to set the doggy free. He has been such a loyal pet, but he belongs to another, and my time with him is almost done. I can feel it getting closer… closer to the time… Daddy's nearly home. And his little girl shall be there in a pretty dress to greet him!

My poet wishes to keep me, but William strains at the leash to be free. Find the spark, ignite the flame.

* * *

Bursting into the mansion, Spike grinned as the doors bounced off the walls with a satisfying crash. He eyed them critically as they swung back. The one on the right wouldn't last much longer if he were any judge, the top hinge was loose. He could hear Dru off in the bowels of the dwelling, and the screams of one of her 'toys'. He made sure to keep a handful of minions around, no-one too independent, just someone who wasn't him to do the domestic. Like fix the doors, let Dru express her artistic side. She was a dab hand at torture thanks to good ol' Angelus, but her favourite pastime was to paint. Great swirls of dusty red on canvas, murals of violence. She'd bleed a minion out slowly, using its' blood to lay down the base-coat, then when they were nearly dry she'd dust them and mix it in for a greasy texture that dried not unlike oil-paint. Sure the colours weren't all that varied, there were only so many shades of red in blood, but he loved how she managed to make it seem fresh and new every time.

He strolled up to her and grabbed her by the back of her skull, twirling her into his arms, heedless of the stains that crawled up her arms like evening gloves. 'What's my Plum painting for us, hmm?'

'Miss Edith insists it's the night sky, but the pixies tell all. Souls are crying, pinned to the wall like lovely…' she turned her face up for his kiss, chaste on her nose, 'lovely...' dragging his lips down her cheek, he nuzzled into her throat with tiny nips and licks, 'butterflies. Am I a pretty butterfly, my poet?'

'The darkest, prettiest one of all, my sweet. Have you had anything for tea?'

'Only a lonely turtledove. She cried for her love, but he'd flown quite away. She tasted of tears and despair, so sweet.'

He looked at her with a slight frown. 'That was two days gone love, did you eat anything tonight? Or yesterday? I've been a bad, rude man ignoring you like this. Here, have some of mine.' He turned his head to the side in a submissive gesture for his Sire, inviting her to take. Drusilla wrinkled her nose, almost as if in disgust, and turned away. He looked gutted for an instant, then his face turned to stone. 'Did I do something my sweet? Are you angry at your Spike, Dru- baby- are you feeling ok?'

* _Sodding ponce. You just crawl back every time she kicks you, innit?_ * His fey lover looked at him with hollow eyes. 'Can't taste you anymore, my poet, sunshine has quite burnt your taste from my lips. Only ashes for princess. Sunshine and regrets for you.'

His head jerked back as if slapped. * _There it is again. What sunshine? I haven't regretted anything since I woke up dead. What the buggering fuck is she on about?! And she's fading again. Dammit, I fixed this! I drained that slayer dry to FIX this, what's bloody wrong with her?_ *

'Sugar-plum. Dru- darling. Thought we healed you. Why're you off your feed again? You're fading like you did after Prague. Wasn't that Slayer enough? Should we go find you another?' * _Gods he hated feeling helpless like this. It was as bad as when he watched his mother coughing her lungs red from consumption, and he knew as little about how to fix this as he had back then._ *

Dru just shook her finger at him in reproof. 'Sweet cake will fill but not nourish, you naughty boy. Mustn't eat our pudding before our meat. How can I have any pudding if I don't eat my meat?'

'And what meat is this, my princess? Shall I find a strapping lad for you to sup on? Some beef-head with no neck and broad shoulders?'

She giggled at his ire, which succeeded in bringing out the tic in his clenched jaw. 'Blood of stone, my love. Blood of the fallen. Blood makes and breaks and binds.  _In the Vale, 'neath Heavens' Eye_. In Darkness it winds, and though sparks light the path they'll soon be snuffed out- Poof- into the night with Princess.' Twirling away, her hair flared out like thistledown as she spun, faster and faster. Just before he stepped forward and caught her, she sank down prettily on her knees in a move that The Head Wanker had taught her to please him.

He dropped his head in his hand and scrubbed his face with it. Blowing through his fingers, Spike thought long and hard. His head snapped up again. He hated to remember what an utter ponce Pratt had been, but it looked as though he'd no choice. He shuddered. It was time to hit the books. And he knew just the place to start, the largest comprehensive collection of tomes on magical phenomena and demonology on this side of the pond. He just hoped that The Wankers Council hadn't called their resident berk on the ground back to the Homeland as soon as they found out his little girl was dead. God, not Sunnyhell again.

Nothing had tasted the same since he'd blown through that demon infested burg with Dru. He'd tried everyone; dark girls, white girls, rich, poor, homeless, drug addicts (and besides the roulette of what drug he'd ingest with them, malnourishment on top of blood poisoning was gross), sodding  _men_. Not only did it all taste like that one time he'd tried pigs blood on a dare, he'd found that his new lack of appetite meant he wasn't even killing anymore. The rush was gone. It was too much like work. Sheer habit had him draining the first few meals he'd taken after leaving Sunnydale, but after that it just seemed too easy.

There was no challenge in slaughtering these cattle. Hell, he'd taken to wandering about at night, trawling demon bars and stirring up fights just for some entertainment. He'd play games with his food sometimes, looking out for specific types. There was a certain satisfaction in hunting those who thought themselves predators. Teaching them the errors of their ways, before draining them to the point of death. Leaving them to live or die on the kindness of others. Kindness. He'd seen  _Fyarls_  with more kindness than your average city-dweller. Especially here in the 'Land of Opportunity'.

* _Wonder if Dalton stuck around the Hellmouth? Maybe I c'n offload some of the research onto him. Little berk had a nose for learnin'_ * Coming to a swift decision, he strode into his and Dru's room and started throwing the clothes and music tapes that lay everywhere into a duffel from the corner. Once he had his gear packed, he went over to the closet. Removing the trunk he'd found within when he'd liberated the place, Spike proceeded to fold and carefully pack Dru's frocks and fripperies. Hesitating only for a moment, he swept all the books they'd collected in the last fortnight into Dru's trunk before shutting it and packing it and the duffel into his DeSoto. He'd cleaned out a few nights ago at poker, so he had enough to ship his baby back to California, but it burned that he had to lay out so much cash for it. Problem was if he tried cheaper avenues he stood a good chance of losing the car and that was not an option. Only the best for his girls. Almost absently he dusted any minion he came across on his way back to Dru, but he was too proccupied to notice if he'd missed one. It was surprisingly easy to lure Dru out to the car, she was almost eager to get going.

* * *

I can see Daddy smiling. The sunshine tries to scorch him but he's leaping back into the shadows like a good boy. No sunshine for Daddy. I can see Her smiling like a snake. Slither closer on your belly, serpent. Sink your poison deeply, drown his spark. Such pretty lies to snare a Champion.

Dark knight shadows her heart, the bright queen-in-waiting prepares a feast, but who is coming to the party? A dance, a dance with pretty dresses and flowers and messes. Masks that shift, inside to outside and back again. It's cold in the dark, sometimes, but my puppy warms me whilst I have his poet's heart. Soon all the family will be together again and Miss Edith will have her tea and biscuits.


End file.
